


A Slow Heartbeat

by Sharksdontsleep



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Los Angeles Dodgers, M/M, World Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 13:26:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12772023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharksdontsleep/pseuds/Sharksdontsleep
Summary: After the game, Corey takes off his jersey, one button at a time, like if he does it slow, it'll delay the off-season for just a little longer.





	A Slow Heartbeat

**Author's Note:**

> This is not my team; these are not my players. How did I get here? 
> 
> “It’s pretty unbelievable the way he carries himself,’’ Utley said, “with such a lack of experience at this level. He’s really impressed me, just the way he’s handled everything, with all of the things thrown at him. He’s got a very smart baseball mind. He’s got a slow heartbeat. And he understands what makes him click. And, oh yeah, he can do anything on the baseball field.’’
> 
> https://www.usatoday.com/story/sports/mlb/columnist/bob-nightengale/2016/08/31/chase-utley-corey-seager-dodgers/89668166/

After the game, Corey takes off his jersey, one button at a time, like if he does it slow, it'll delay the off-season for just a little longer. Usually, after a game, it's sodden, but it's not - they hadn't even worked up much of a sweat - and it sounds a little dry when it hits the chair next to his stall. He takes off his Under Armour next, then unbuckles his belt, not bothering to slide it through the belt loops of his pants, just shucking them. His cleats had already come off, and for a minute, he's just standing there in his shorts and socks.

He should be wearing a shirt that says, 'LA Dodgers, World Series Champions,' and champagne and possibly Chase's attention and praise. At least he'd hoped.

He goes to the showers in a trance, and all the guys around him are equally morose, just standing under the spray and soaping up, none of the usual messing around. The media'll be in in a minute and he knows the words he's supposed to say, the right ones, but he might just tell them all to fuck off, and that should be more worrying than it is.

He pulls on his street clothes back in the clubhouse, and it feels wrong, even though he does it every night for a hundred and sixty two nights - plus the post season - like he's wearing someone else's skin.

Chase sees him and comes over, not ruffling his hair or punching him on the arm or doing any of the other dad shit he did sometimes when they were all feeling good. He must see the stormclouds gathering over Corey's head, or the shake his chin's starting to get like he might cry, and says, "C'mon, kid, get your shit." And so Corey stuffs a couple things from his stall into a bag and leaves.

Chase kind of drives like an old man, and normally Corey would tease him about it - for being cautious when he never played that way. But it occurs to Corey that that might have been Chase's last game _ever_ , that he'd gone out on a whimper, a pathetic effort, and he smacks the dash of Chase's truck, palm hitting against it hard enough to sting.

Chase leans across, one hand still on the wheel, and puts his hand next to where Corey's is resting, the edge of his palm not quite touching Corey's. "Don't hurt yourself," Chase says, and objectively, Corey knows guys have broken their hands punching shit - have had to sit out months and months and months - but subjectively, he doesn't give a shit because their season is over and possibly Chase's career.

He pulls his hand up and brings it down again, mostly because Chase can't tell him what to do - he's officially a free agent now, or will be at midnight, and Corey feels as cut loose by this as Chase might be - and he's bone-tired and angry and he wants to punch something because this shit isn't fair at all.

"I get it," Chase says. "You want to do something stupid."

"Fuck you," Corey says, though he knows that it sounds petulant as he feels, and Chase just huffs a little in response.

It's not that late, though it feels like it should be - feels like it should be 2AM and dark as LA ever got, but instead it's barely 11:30 and there's plenty of other traffic on the road. Corey slumps in his seat, listening to Chase mutter at idiot California drivers, like he's not one, and Corey presses his face against the cool glass of the window and absolutely doesn't cry.

They pull up at Chase's house, and Chase cuts the engine and hops out, leaving Corey to scrub his hand against his wet face and then go to where Chase is waiting under the porch light to let them in.

It's not the first time he's slept here, but it feels like it is, and he removes his shoes on the mat inside the door like a guest and sits on the edge of the sofa like a guest and accepts the drink that Chase presses into his hand and drinks it politely. He'd been expecting bourbon, maybe, or Gatorade, but it's just an IPA, sweating enough that its label starts to peel off.

Chase has one, and raises his in a mock toast, though he doesn't say what they're drinking to - the end of their season, the end of his career, possibly. He looks as tired as Corey feels, all the dye long gone from his gray hair. Corey knows some guys play longer; look at Ichiro. Fuck, look at Bartolo. But this feels like an end, like a bad end to something great, and he swallows his urge to apologize with another swig of beer.

"Does it get any better?" he asks, sudden, and it sounds like a shout in the quiet living room.

"Not really," Chase says. "Just balances, I guess. You'll get a ring, Corey. This team is something special. You'll get there."

'But you won't, again,' Corey doesn't say, and it's not his fault, but it feels like it is. Feels like he owes a debt that he can't ever repay - like he owed Chase one last big win.

Instead, he says, "Can I see it? Your ring?" And it's a dumb question because it's probably in a safe deposit box somewhere, but Chase is getting up from the couch and walking down the hall toward his bedroom, and Corey follows him.

He's kneeling in front of a safe, punching in a numeric code Corey can't see and then putting his thumb on a scanner to register his fingerprint. The ring's in an oversized box and he holds it out to Corey to look at like it's - like it's nothing, really, but an ostentatious ring crusted in diamonds, a Phillies P where Corey wants nothing more than to see a different letter. It's kind of ugly, if he's being honest with himself, a piece of jewelry not even meant to be worn, and he can't imagine it around Chase's finger, can't see it matching Chase's quiet determination or excellence.

Corey puts the tip of his forefinger through it, just to see what it feels like, but all it feels like is bad luck, so he says, "Thanks," and hands the ring and the box back to Chase.

The air kicks on in the house, even though it's cool enough, a hold over from when it'd truly been hot a few days before, and Corey hadn't noticed that he's been sweating - not the clean sweat from a game but a dank nervous kind of sweat - until it makes him shiver. His shirt's sticking to his back, and it must be noticeable enough, because Chase goes over to his dresser and pulls out a shirt, a long-sleeved Dodgers tee that nevertheless says 'Utley' across the back.

Something about it hits Corey with a sense of urgency, and he doesn't wait to strip off his shirt before putting on the one Chase offered, which stretches across his shoulders and chest, and is too short at the wrists. But it settles something within him, or settles something for Chase. Because Chase reaches out to pluck a loose thread or to pull the seam where it sits askew on Corey's shoulder or maybe to just run his thumb under Corey's eye, hand on his face where he feels tender, practically bruised, and Corey leans down the distance between them and kisses him.

However he thought this would go - however he'd imagined it, and he had, watching Chase play back when he was 'Utley' and Corey was the kid with his poster on the wall; when Chase had first signed with the Dodgers and Corey had entertained the fantasy that Chase might actually take an interest in him, spend time with him; when Chase had, in fact, done those things, and Corey had gotten ROY and a silver slugger and the force of Chase's attention - it wasn't like this.

For one, he still feels like he might cry, desperate wet sobs that threaten to drain him. For another, they should be celebrating, and instead, they're kissing in Chase's bedroom on a cold LA night celebrating nothing and with only Chase's open safe and past victories to watch them.

In Corey's head, Chase is always taller than he is, though the reality is obviously different, so it makes sense when Chase backs him to the bed and says, "Yeah?" like Corey ever could say 'no' to him.

They kiss for a while, clothed, until Chase's belt catches Corey on the stomach one too many times, and he unbuckles it for Chase, tugging, like they can't be naked fast enough. He undoes his own, and he'd dressed in such a haze that he'd pulled on a pair of his sliding shorts, albeit without the cup, but a reminder of the game they just lost.

Chase doesn't take it like that, because he sits back for a second, on his heels, and seems to take in Corey, in his dumb baseball shorts and too-small shirt, Chase's name written across his back and -

"I was gonna leave this on," Corey says, plucking at the shirt, because they see each other undressed all the time, in the clubhouse, in the showers, but he's never seen the hot flush across Chase's features, never felt like he came close to expressing what Chase meant to him until now.

"Yeah," Chase says, voice thick, and Corey doesn't hesitate this time, before pulling him down, Chase naked and Corey still in his shirt and shorts, kissing with real, god-honest intent.

It's past midnight, and the season is over; Chase is a free man, no longer a Dodger, and he might not be theirs anymore, but he splays his hand over where his name sits on Corey's back and Corey feels, for a second, utterly and completely _his_. And it's not enough, it can't be, but it's something and it's enough for now.


End file.
